


The Sound of Silence

by synonym4life



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Dark, Dry Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Rough Sex, Songfic, Unhealthy Relationships, War, unredeemed draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-01 08:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15139178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym4life/pseuds/synonym4life
Summary: Before, during and after the war, there was only one constant in Harry’s life. Malfoy. A spiteful brat before the war, a Death Eater during it, and a wanted man after. Malfoy is everything Harry should hate. And yet - he doesn’t. In fact, in the sound of silence that presses on him every second of the day, Malfoy is the only one Harry hears.





	The Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, thank you to the wonderful mods for hosting this fest and thank you even more for granting me an extension. You saved me with that. Second of all, the GREATEST thanks and love for my beta, [partialtopotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialtopotter/pseuds/partialtopotter). Thank you so much, dear, you made this fic so much better <3
> 
> The prompt was the wonderful song [The Sound of Silence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9Dg-g7t2l4) (the version by Disturbed). I also have a playlist of all the songs that inspired the fic. I highly recommend listening to it to get a real _feel_ of the fic. [Playlist.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9Dg-g7t2l4)
> 
>  **ADDITIONAL WARNINGS:** Please read this, if you need more information on the angst levels of the fic. It is...angsty. Consider yourself forewarned. There is also a scene that features rough sex - in fact, in a way, it's sex used as a form of punishment. It's fucked up, I know, but it _is_ consensual. Stop reading anytime, if you need to. 
> 
> **ADDITIONAL NOTES:** The story diverges from canon after 5th year. The Horcrux hunt still happens, but not in the same way as in book 7. I also imagine Harry taking part in more actual battles than just the final one. All of this is only touched upon and is not the main part of the fic! (so no spoilers really) I just wanted to clear stuff up, lest it confuses someone.

 

 _Hello, darkness, my old friend_  
_I've come to talk with you again_  
_Because a vision softly creeping_  
_Left its seeds while I was sleeping_  
_And the vision that was planted in my brain_  
_Still remains  
_ _Within the sound of silence_

 

xxxxx

 

_It’s a clear night. The moon hangs low in the sky, the branches casting gnarly shadows on the leaf-strewn forest floor. Harry crosses the wards protecting their tent, leaving the deceiving sense of safety behind. He grabs the coin in his pocket and walks further out between the trees. He doesn’t know where exactly he’s going, he never does. He just walks and walks until -_

_“Potter,” comes from beneath a large beech tree. There stands a man, hidden by shadows, black cloak, black trousers, black hood over his head, barely visible, were it not for his pale skin and the even paler strand of hair that had escaped from under the hood. Harry doesn’t say anything, only walks closer, close enough to see the black around the man’s steel-grey eyes. He looks so young and yet so old. A boy trapped in the horror of living. Harry raises his hand and trails his knuckle over the high cheekbone. Draco’s eyes flutter closed as a soft exhale escapes him. His hand covers Harry’s and pushes it away stopping the caress._

_“Potter,” he says again. He pulls him in by the belt, his other hand still clutching Harry’s. They are so close. Together they create a bubble in which a whole new universe lives._

_“We’re such a fucking mess,” Malfoy says. Harry disagrees. It’s not them who are a mess, the world is. Nothing in their bubble seems like a mess to him, but outside, outside, the storms are raging._

_If only it were possible to keep the thunder out._

 

xxxxx

 

The stale smell of the mouldy old hotel room is sharp in Harry’s nose.  With every breath he takes, he feels the mould spores flit up his nostrils. Up and up they go settling in his brain fetid, flourishing, a testimony to its decay.

The room is dark, only lit by the beams of headlights speeding down the motorway. Down the dark hallway, a man and a woman are arguing. In the adjoining room, a smelly old man is fucking a barely-of-age whore into the mattress. Harry hears nothing. The whole world is mute to him. He buries his head in his hands, the mattress on which he’s sitting trembles with his smallest of movements. He can’t go on like this. It goes against every bone in his body to come here. Again and again and again. The risks he’s taking… he can’t even think about it. Every time he comes here, he tells himself it’s the last.

It never is.

The carpet he’s staring at between his knees has long lost its colour. Bits of it are charred: cigarette buds, most likely. There’s only one window in the room; the paint is peeling off its frame and the glass is smudged enough to dim the world outside. Harry wants to stand up, pace, mutter under his breath, throw that ugly bedside lamp across the room to hear it shatter against the wall. He wants to move.

He sits.

He sits, staring unblinkingly at the disgusting carpet below. The carpet he was fucked on. The carpet he fucked _him_ on.

A part of him wishes Malfoy never comes. A part of him wishes he could stand up and leave this disgusting, disturbing, decadent life behind. The other part lives only for it. For these scarce hours of passion, of rage, of disappointment, of regret, of bitterness, of pain. One would think that he’d strive to be happy, but he had long forgotten how that feels. Now this place is the only thing that makes him feel less empty. The time spent here, the only time he looks and actually sees, the only time he touches and really feels, the only time he listens and _hears_ , the only time _he_ feels heard. Alive.

Not yet. But soon. He glances at the door, straining his ears, hoping for a knock.

He almost laughs out loud at his own thoughts. As if the past few years hadn’t taught him anything. Malfoy never knocks. Malfoy never needs to knock. He hadn’t needed to since Hogwarts.

Harry hardly remembers how it started, all he knows is that it was sudden and gritty and hidden in discarded classrooms and whispered in the dead of the night and full of wishes that would never be. And then the whole world changed. Then he was running and fighting and winning and, through it all, this was the only thing that stayed the same. Still gritty and hidden and full of wishes that would never be, but _there_ ; a part of him so deeply and permanently carved into his soul that he would not _be_ without it.

The door swings open, and he finally strides in. Malfoy is never one for loud entrances, the door is never slammed open, only pushed, the creaking hinges desolately announcing his arrival. Malfoy’s changed so much and yet not at all. The cheekbones are still there, the tall slender figure too, accompanied by the blond hair proudly announcing its pureblood Malfoy ancestry. There’s the haughty pull at his lips that has come to be permanently etched onto his face. The eyes have hardened, the jaw has tightened and the smiles don’t come so easily now. The smiles barely ever come.

“Potter.” Malfoy steps closer, looking down at him. “Harry.”

His hand drifts to Harry’s face sweeping away a strand of hair. He pushes his fingers further between the strands, tugging Harry’s head back, exposing his neck as his grip tightens.

“Draco.” Harry smiles - not a real smile - a smug curl at the corner of his lips. “Draco,” he whispers again, knowing he’ll never get tired of seeing the grey eyes soften ever so slightly whenever he calls his name.

 

xxxxx

 

_Another night. It’s overcast this time, he notices, when opening the flaps of the tent to walk outside. Hermione’s keeping watch tonight, a jar with a blue flame clutched tightly in her mittens. The Galleon burns demanding against Harry’s thigh._

_“I’m just-” he shrugs in the direction of the thickly grown trees their trunks bathing in darkness. Hermione’s eyes fall on him, worried, tired._

_“Harry.” Her eyebrows are drawn together in a silent warning, but all he sees in her eyes is a hopeless plea._

_“Just a walk, Hermione,” he assures her. “You know my Patronus always shows me the way back.”_

_Her head lowers in defeat. “It’s not - what if you can’t conjure it anymore?”_

_“Don’t worry about that. I can.”_

_In fact, whenever he meets him the stag is brighter, clearer, prouder. It’s not that he’s happy when he’s with him. No, it isn’t happiness. But the very moment Harry cast his first Patronus to the echo of his mother’s screams, he learned that happiness wasn’t the only emotion that made a Patronus strong._

 

xxxxx

 

Harry’s back hits the door as he’s pushed backwards, Malfoy’s lips are already on his. Malfoy always kisses like he means it, like it isn’t just a perfunctory prelude to a fuck. He kisses like he’s been aching to do it all day. His lips are harsh, demanding. For once he lacks grace in something he does, all teeth and bumping noses and hands that never know where to settle. But he kisses like he _means_ it. No longer holding back, no longer poised and distant, but _there_.

Whenever Malfoy touches him, Harry feels like he comes into being. As if all the other days he’s just pretending to exist, but here, Malfoy’s lips on his neck, his hand under his shirt, his moans reverberating against his skin, he gets to really be. The sound, so muted before, comes rushing back to him and finally he hears the hitches of his own breath, the thud of his head as it slams against the door when Malfoy’s hand finally rubs against the bulge in his trousers. He hears the moans of the whore from the next room, the shouts of the man at the end of the hallway, even the distant rumble of cars speeding along the motorway. It’s as if he were there, standing on the bridge above the road, wind whipping around him and cars roaring below.

Harry lets it all in, he lets the reality crash around him, consuming him. When he’s here, Malfoy’s fingers in his hair, Malfoy’s hand around his cock and Malfoy’s mouth moaning his name against his ear over and over and over again, Harry isn’t afraid to feel anymore, isn’t afraid to see, to hear, to live. When their shirts are finally off, their chest touching, warm and soft and vulnerable and human, he wants to cry from relief. He claws at Malfoy’s back, pulling him closer, cursing directly into his ear, cursing him for making him this weak, this pathetic, cursing him because it’s him and not anyone else. Harry wants it to be someone else, anyone, more than he wants anything else in the world.

Too bad the wishes of the mind align so badly with the wishes of the heart.

Then there’s his body, the biggest traitor of all, begging Malfoy to fuck him, right there, against the door, symbolic perhaps of the state of their being. Two worlds that could never merge into one, separated by a creaking, swinging door that is always on the brink of slamming shut forever. It might have been better had they locked it, boarded it up, long ago. Instead, whenever it’s about to close they claw at it desperately, kick it open, tear it down, all for a few seconds of détente that they get between its frames.

Malfoy flips him around, pressing Harry’s face into the wood, the paint, a muddy beige, almost entirely peeled off. Malfoy’s lips are on the back of Harry’s neck as he pulls off his pants, finding Harry’s entrance with his fingers. He rubs against it and Harry moans, not unlike the whore from the other room. He doesn’t care, though. He doesn’t care because Malfoy knows how much he craves it, Malfoy knows how much he needs it and, judging by the stuttered incantation in his ear, Malfoy craves it too. Then, Malfoy’s fingers, slick with lube, slip inside him, opening him up slowly, gently. And now it’s Malfoy who’s cursing, telling him how much he wants it, while Harry pants, pushes back, begging him to get the fuck on with it.

When Malfoy finally pushes his cock inside him, it feels exactly like it’s felt every single time before. It stings a bit because Harry is impatient and he never waits long enough for Malfoy to prepare him properly. So Malfoy’s the one who has to wait for Harry to adjust, until he, too, runs out of patience and slams all the way in.

Harry feels free. Free to let go, free to just be. As Malfoy’s arms wrap around him and they start to rock together, Harry grips Malfoy’s hair to pull his head up from where he’s moaning into Harry’s back, so that he can moan against his ear instead. He wants to hear it, every single breath, every single whimper, every single whisper of his name. If there is a sound in the world, he could hear for the rest of his life it would be that. His name - not Potter - _Harry,_ moaned into his ear right before Malfoy’s thrusts become erratic and his tugs on Harry’s cock quicken. His name moaned into his ear right before their bodies tighten, Harry’s just that little bit sooner, and they come: Harry against the battered door and Malfoy inside his arse.

Malfoy falls limp against Harry’s back and just lays there, head on Harry’s shoulder as they wait for their breaths to calm. When they can finally breathe properly again, they somehow make it into bed, collapsing onto the creaking mattress next to each other. They lie there, not touching, face in the pillow, as they begin to drift away.

As soon as Harry’s eyes are firmly shut and he’s sinking into deep sleep, he feels the sharp talons of a nightmare scratching at his subconsciousness. He makes a feeble attempt at escape, begging his brain to wake up, but the screaming voices pull him under until there is nothing left but terror.

He’s crouched behind a dumpster in a dark cobbled alley. Flashes of red, green, and white are lighting up the night. _He’s too late._ Red cloaks are swirling everywhere and more are apparating onto the street with wands drawn, ready to strike. Harry is frozen. He’s long stopped feeling his straining thighs, long stopped hearing the hoarse incantations of spells flying past him, long stopped smelling the piss that permeates every cobble in the shoddy alley. All he sees is a desperate blond man, his wand cutting through the air frantically, repelling spell after spell, throwing up shield after shield, refusing to surrender - hoping, perhaps, that Harry will save him like so many times before.

But Harry can’t move. He’s too late.

Malfoy is surrounded. Aurors are coming at him from both sides of the street. Harry wants to scream at him. _Give up! Surrender! You fucking fool! Don’t you see it’s over? It’s over!_ And then the urge to scream stops and he wants to cry, cry like a wounded animal. _Please! Don’t you see? Please stop, they’ll kill you! Please, please, please don’t give them a reason to kill you._

But Malfoy isn’t giving in.

He’s there, standing proud - frightened, but proud - as if this is the culmination of his life he’s always envisaged but was never truly prepared for. The curses penetrate his shields and his black cloak clings strangely to his chest and left arm. It’s glued to his skin with what Harry realizes must be blood.

Harry looks at his co-workers’ faces; they’re getting grimmer by the second. Darby’s movements are getting sharper, her feet are planted firmly on the ground in the position of a full blown attack - she knows they’re winning, she knows she’s not in danger anymore. A flash of movement makes Harry’s eyes snap away from her to Patkins. His eyes, usually so full of laughter and warmth, are devoid of all mercy. Harry can see the exact moment the old Auror’s patience runs out. His mouth grimaces, his head falls an inch lower, brows drawing together as he pulls himself up, bringing his arm back high above his head - it strikes forward, like an uncoiling snake and finally, _f_ _inally_ Harry can scream.

“NO! Nooooooo-” his voice breaks as the words of the killing curse are spat out into the night and the green light bursts from the tip of Patkins’ wand heading straight for Malfoy’s side. He lunges from behind the dumpster another scream tearing from his lip–

The scene cuts off as he is slapped into wakefulness by a harsh hand. His eyes shoot open, his heart hammering in his chest, the sheets beneath him soaked with his cold sweat.

“Malfoy -” he breathes at the frowning figure above. The soreness in his throat lets him know the screams had breached the dimensions of his nightmare and made it into the real world. Malfoy is leaning over him, as if itching to touch him, but not daring to. Harry would like to think there’s concern etched into his face, but he’s long stopped hoping he’d get any sort of confirmation about the presence of those feelings.

Harry pushes him away, his shove feeble, the memory of fear making his muscles tremble. He sits on the edge of the bed, head falling into his hands, already familiar with this image of despair. He hears Malfoy fling himself back on the duvet, the mattress creaking softly beneath him.

“What now?” Malfoy decides to break the silence when Harry doesn’t speak up.

Harry stays quiet. He’s getting cold, sitting on the edge of the bed naked and vulnerable, but the times of hiding his weaknesses from Malfoy are long gone. Bruised, battered, frightened and hurt, Malfoy has seen it all. Malfoy lies behind him in silence - he's not one to beg for an answer if it isn’t given on the first try.

“What if you get caught?” Harry finally whispers into his hands. The breaths behind him stop before continuing at a slightly quicker pace.

“You won’t let them catch me.” There’s a creak and Harry feels Malfoy move towards him over the bed, feels the heat of the body on his back, even though Malfoy isn’t touching him. Malfoy leans further in, just enough for his hair to tickle Harry’s temple as he whispers into his ear.

“You’ll save me, Potter. Not because you’re a hero, but because you’re _not._ ” It’s unjust, Harry thinks, that words like these - the opposite of praise - can turn him on so much.

“What if they kill you?” Harry asks, the flash of green still vivid beneath his eyelids, the cars’ lights cutting through the window, imprinting the memory of the curse even more firmly in his mind.

“Then I’ll die.” Harry can feel the smirk that stretches across Malfoy’s face. He stands up, turning around on him.

“You think that’s funny?” He steps closer and pushes against Malfoy’s chest. The irritating smirk is still firm on the pale face as Malfoy falls back against the duvet. He looks glorious naked, spread out so confidently below Harry.

“The only reason you don’t want me dead yourself is because you’re selfish,” Malfoy states. The smirk is nowhere near disappearing, but Harry doesn’t notice it anymore. He’s too distracted by Malfoy’s pale hand sliding sensuously down his own neck. The pale thumb strokes a vein before squeezing around the throat like Harry’s done so many times before. Malfoy continues, “Your morals have come in conflict with your wants -” his hand slides lower, over his pink nipple, “- and I’m the only one who makes you choose your wants,” his voice drops dangerously, “over. And over. And over again.” His thumb traces one of the many white scars marring his chest. “Do not think I don’t take pride in that,” he whispers.

Wants.

Harry almost laughs out loud. Had it merely been wants that came in conflict with his morals, he’d have cut off his dick long ago. But he couldn’t very well rip out his heart.

Malfoy’s fingers tread softly over another scar - the one just below his ribs - without taking his eyes from Harry’s. Harry never fails to be surprised by how scarred his chest is. He remembers each and every one of the scars individually, has traced them all with his fingers, with his tongue, but looking at all of them from afar, shocks him to his very core. Because _he’s_ responsible for that. He leans over Malfoy, one knee on the bed, between his legs, and runs a thumb over the scar on Malfoy's hipbone.

“I would have done it all over again.” He stares, transfixed, as his finger traces the path his dark magic took all those years ago.

“I’d expect nothing less of you,” Malfoy admits. He takes Harry’s hand in his right, bringing his left forearm into focus, and places it over the Dark Mark. Harry shudders. “But I, too, would have done it all, all over again.”

Harry knows Malfoy’s eyes are bearing into him, but he can’t look away from the ugly skull that’s poking out above his grip on Malfoy’s wrist. “I _did_ expect better from you,” he tells him.

Malfoy laughs. It’s a hoarse laugh, devoid of all amusement. “And yet,” he drawls and Harry knows the smirk is back again, “here you are.”

 

xxxxx

 

 _In restless dreams I walked alone_  
_Narrow streets of cobblestone_  
_'Neath the halo of a street lamp_  
_I turned my collar to the cold and damp_  
_When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light_  
_That split the night  
_ _And touched the sound of silence_

 

xxxxx

 

_“You,” Harry hisses at Malfoy’s face, pressing him harder against the wall. “You fucking-” his grip tightens when his voice fails him. Malfoy is completely limp in his arms, only his eyes giving any proof of life. “You just - fucking - killed him.” Harry hates that his voice betrays a scrap of awe._

_“One of your own,” he whispers, bearing into Malfoy even harder as memories of the recent battle flash before his eyes, “you killed -” he slams him against the wall, “ - one of your own.”_

_Malfoy swallows hard, “He was coming for you.” His hand curls around Harry’s, which is gripping Malfoy’s collar tightly. “Now stop treating me like I’m the one about to kill you, or I really might just undo my own heroic act, Potter.”_

_Harry’s grip loosens, but doesn’t let go. There’s rain starting up - a few droplets have already hit Malfoy’s cheeks and streaks of his hair are getting darker by the second. He’s never looked more beautiful, more raw._

_“You give us information, you give us warnings, you give us -”_

_“Not ‘_ us _’ -” Malfoy interrupts. “You. Just you.”_

_“And now,” Harry continues, disregarding his words, “You. Kill. One. Of your own.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that his hand, fisted in Malfoy’s cloak, is trembling. The alley is almost completely dark, the first street light far from it’s entrance. He’s shivering. The rain is pouring in earnest, soaking him to his skin. “Deep down you want our side to win.” His voice, now tinged with hope, betrays him again._

_“Don’t delude yourself.” Malfoy’s lip curls in contempt._

_“Why, then?” Harry’s eyes bear into grey._

_Malfoy’s hand slides around Harry’s neck, softly laying there, while his thumb traces the line of his jawline._

_“It’s the only way you’ll live.”_

 

xxxxx

 

“Fuck!”

Harry takes the lamp from the bedside table and flings it against the opposite wall. “FUCK!” he screams, the shout scraping its way out of his sore throat. The room is in chaos and Malfoy is standing there, completely still, in the eye of a tornado that he knows cannot - will not - touch him. Harry feels the anger surge through his veins, mingling with magic, no longer a separate entity, but one uncontrollable force. For once, he doesn’t stop it, for once, he doesn’t rein it in, but lets it spill out of him, lets it burst forth, like a river does when its dam is torn down. 

The window, explodes, as does the other lamp and the ugly vase in the corner that’s been standing there for months, years even, pretending there’s ever been any semblance of a normal life in this miserable room. Tears are welling hot behind his eyes, his vision blurry, as he punches the wall. He hits the wall a few more times before collapsing against the chipped plaster, breathing hard.

“What have I done?” he whispers. “WHAT HAVE I DONE?!” he yells into the room. No response is forthcoming. They both know exactly what he’s done. Tears are sliding down his face and all he can see is the blurry red of the carpet that looks way too much like Patkins’ blood. A hand falls heavy on his shoulder making him realize that he’s fallen to his knees at some point. He looks up. Malfoy’s face is unreadable, completely impassive as he looks down on him.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, his hand just lying there, on Harry’s shoulder, not knowing what to do, but steadying him nonetheless. “He’ll survive.”

It doesn’t matter, though. It doesn’t matter because even if Harry had known that Patkins wouldn't survive, he would have done it anyway. He had become what he most feared; a traitor, a liar, a hypocrite.

“Sectumsempra,” Harry whispers. “Sectumsempra, Malfoy.” His chest trembles with shaking breaths. “I threw a fucking Sectumsempra at a fellow Auror!” He grips Malfoy’s wrist tightly, an anchor in the storm raging inside him.

“I know.” Malfoy’s other hand threads softly through Harry’s hair. “I was there.”

The hand on his shoulder slides to his upper arm tugging him up, trying to get him to stand. But Harry can’t move. He can only stare up at Malfoy in horror, while the fingers caressing his hair try to remind him why it was worth it

“For you.” Harry’s voice is heavy. “I did it for you.” He feels another set of tears slide down into his mouth, down his chin, his nose.

“I know.” Malfoy’s face is still unreadable, but his words are laden with emotion Harry can’t decipher. “I was there.”

“Make me forget it.” Harry can’t even be embarrassed by the tone of plea in his voice. Malfoy’s grip on his arm tightens and Harry can see his pupils dilate with want. “Please. Fuck. Anything, Malfoy.” Harry begs, the waves of misery and self-hatred threatening to pull him under as all he can see are blotches of red darkening the burgundy Auror robes.

Malfoy nods curtly. He untangles his fingers from Harry’s knotted hair and traces a finger across his forehead, down Harry’s eyebrow, his tear-streaked cheek, his jaw and finally his mouth. Harry is completely dazed, he sees Malfoy, but he isn’t really there, he’s still back on that street - sunlit and peaceful, so unlike in his nightmare - where Draco almost got caught.

“Get up, Potter. Now.” Malfoy’s face is strict and voice firm. His forefinger is under Harry’s jaw pushing up. Harry gets up somehow, legs shaky, as if they weren’t really his own.

Malfoy steps closer, his breaths ghosting Harry’s cheek as his hand starts to work on the buttons of Harry’s top. He pops them open, excruciatingly slowly, making Harry feel every single movement of his body. Malfoy’s tongue darts out and licks his cheek. Then he smiles, his lips stretching intimately against Harry’s skin.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Malfoy murmurs against his cheek. “So...mine.”

In the past, Harry would have got mad at those words. He would have pushed Malfoy away and told him he was no one’s, especially not _his_. Now, all those words do is make his cock twitch from the truth in them. Today, he proved it, once and for all, that he would choose Malfoy even if the stakes rose up - today he proved he’d risk it all.

Harry’s shirt is off and Malfoy presses even closer, the heat of his body enveloping Harry tenderly as he unzips his trousers. He pulls them down to rub Harry’s cock through his pants. It hardens at Malfoy’s touch. Slowly, Malfoy lowers to his knees, pulling Harry’s trousers and pants further down, for him to step out of them. Malfoy stays on his knees, throwing Harry a hungry look as he undoes the buttons of his own shirt. As soon as it’s off, he scoots closer and, mere inches from Harry’s cock, he licks his lips teasingly. His chest is practically white in the moonlight that’s spilling through the stained window. He bends his head and, when his lips finally touch Harry’s cock, a sigh of relief flows out of Harry’s lungs.

Malfoy’s mouth is hot and wet when he nips at Harry’s foreskin before pulling it back and taking his whole cock into his mouth. He licks and sucks, his head bobbing up and down, his throat making the most sinful of noises. Harry is just about to grab his hair for leverage when Malfoy stops abruptly. He licks his lips again and wipes some of the saliva from the corner of his mouth.

“On the bed,” Malfoy says curtly and Harry hates that he can sound so commanding from such a submissive position. “Spread out for me. On your stomach.” Harry hates it even more that he obliges immediately.

He climbs into the bed, Malfoy not far behind him. Before Harry can settle, Malfoy pushes a pillow under his hips making Harry’s arse stick obscenely into the air once he plops down on it. Malfoy is on him a second later and his hands, no longer quite as gentle as before, grab Harry’s hair twisting his head back to whisper filthily in his ear.

“Potter.”

Malfoy loves saying that word. He loves saying it in the same tone he said it back at Hogwarts and, much as Harry hates to admit it, he loves it too. It reminds him of those dark hours before the sunrise that he and Malfoy spent in disused classrooms, of those first few angry fucks full of fumbling and fighting, and the rage that came after, when they both realized time and again what they’d done.

Malfoy lets go, his hands travelling down Harry’s back, down his sensitive sides to his arse. Malfoy spreads it open and without warning a charm sweeps through Harry. Harry doesn’t even have time to shiver in discomfort before Malfoy bends down to lick at his hole, making him shiver for a whole other reason. Malfoy gives him no time to think; he circles his rim, then flattens his tongue against it and licks. Harry is a wreck before the tip of the tongue even enters him. When it does, though, he groans into the pillow and bucks his hips, not knowing whether to thrust forth or back, unable to decide what he wants more of - the tongue, or the delicious friction of the duvet against his cock.

Harry’s hands clench the sheets harder every time Malfoy’s tongue delves deeper inside him, but he doesn’t dare squeeze his eyes shut too hard because when he does the blackness behind his eyelids turns to giant gashes of red. So he keeps his eyes open and moans with abandon when Malfoy’s finger replaces his tongue. He didn't hear Malfoy cast, but his fingers are slick with lube as they rub down Harry’s arse crack. Harry pushes back, needing more.

“Fuck, Malfoy. More,” he groans, not knowing if Malfoy can even distinguish the words in his breathy plea. But Malfoy seems to have got the idea from the tone of desperation in Harry’s voice and a second finger is pushed alongside the first. Harry doesn’t even feel the stretch, he wants more, more, more more, always more of Malfoy.

Malfoy doesn’t give him more, but he gives him faster and deeper, his fingers curled slightly, so that they hit Harry’s prostate every time. Harry can’t take it anymore, he’s so hard. He rocks against the duvet, rubbing his cock on it, seeking friction until he’s basically fucking the bed. Malfoy’s fingers stop completely, still inside him, not moving. Harry gives a frustrated sign of protest and pushes himself back on them.

“I don’t want you to move a single inch, Potter, do you understand?” He’s trying to sound cold, but Harry can practically hear the arousal in his words. Malfoy must be painfully hard by now. From the faint movement he sees from the corner of his eyes, he assumes Malfoy is rubbing his cock through his pants. “I want you to come from my fingers alone. My fingers in your arse and not a single touch to your cock.”

Harry growls in frustration because his cock is leaking and his arse still feels too empty and he needs more and he needs to fucking rub his fucking cock, but he still nods in assent.

“Yes, fuck, just give me more, please, Malfoy - Aah,” he moans when Malfoy’s fingers pull out slightly and then not two, but three push back in and, finally, fucking _finally_ , Harry feels full. He wants to push back, but Malfoy places a firm hand, palm flat, on Harry’s lower back to remind him to be still. So Harry keeps as still as possible, as the three fingers start to slide in and out of him, stretching him, sliding against his prostate. He keeps his hips still, but he can’t keep his head from thrashing around when Malfoy’s thrusts speed up and he can’t keep his toes from curling and his legs from twitching whenever the fingers brush against his prostate particularly hard.

There’s tension building in his groin and the urge to thrust forward has never been greater. Malfoy feels it and pushes down on his back with force.

“No moving,” he growls and Harry positively whines in protest. The whine turns into a sob with another slide of the fingers against that sweet sweet spot inside him. Harry is absolutely gone. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, all he feels are the fingers now positively pounding in and out of him, and the building pain in his cock, which is so fucking hard Harry thinks he’d cry if he was allowed to touch it.

“I’m - Imma,” he hears himself moan into the pillow and the pressure on his lower back finally disappears. He feels Malfoy’s hot chest on his back and his hand around his neck, just under his jaw, pulling his head up.

“No moaning into the pillow," Malfoy mutters into his ear, voice low and laden with arousal. "I want to hear you come.” 

Harry almost orgasms from that alone, but the final straw are the three fingers that continue to rub against his prostate with agonising accuracy. With Malfoy’s hand off his lower back, Harry’s hips are free to move. He fucks back on the fingers and then his hips thrust forward creating beautiful, wonderful friction and then he’s coming. He’s coming with Malfoy’s heavy breaths in his ear and his own moans reverberating through his chest. His body seizes up, and in a series of tremors come spurts out his sensitive cock, Malfoy’s fingers still inside him, pushing in, fucking him through the spasms.

Harry falls forward, not breathing, not moving, not even existing. For that blissful moment he forgets everything he is and everything he ever was. He doesn’t exist because existence means there was a before and after. He doesn’t exist, he simply _is_ , as if he came into being in that very moment of pure unadulterated pleasure.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to roll over, but once he does, he sees that Malfoy had already fallen onto the bed next to him. Harry makes a half-hearted attempt to reach for him but his body isn’t cooperating and his hand falls on the bed between them.

“I need to. You.” His speech sounds slightly slurred. Obviously, his mouth isn’t cooperating either.

Malfoy smiles then. A smile so free and so _rare_ Harry’s breath catches in his chest and for the second time in the span of a few minutes his lungs forget to breathe.

“I need to get you off, too,” Harry tries again, after he finds his voice. Malfoy just waves his arm dismissively and averts his eyes.

“I already came,” he admits. “Didn’t take more than a few pulls.”

Harry is strangely proud that his own undoing undid Malfoy so easily. He gives a breathy laugh and turns to look at the ceiling.

The more time passes and the more the silence slides between them, the quicker the wisps of bliss blow away in the wind of the day’s memories. A hard weight settles on him when he remembers. Remembers Malfoy’s panicked gaze when the Aurors advanced, remembers his own arm extending, and the white light from the curse flying from his wand, remembers Perkins crumbling, remembers Malfoy’s stunned expression that rooted him to the spot for a fraction of a second before he turned and ran, remembers that he’ll have to face the consequences when he turns up at work tomorrow.

“I’m not sorry,” Harry whispers into the dark. The guilt that claws at him might try to convince him of the opposite, but if he were truly sorry it would mean that, if he could go back, he’d do it differently. Yet, Harry knows that he would slash his fellow Auror’s chest in every alternate universe if that meant Malfoy got to walk out free.

Malfoy doesn’t reply, he too is staring up at the ceiling. The only response is his hand slipping into Harry’s, palm settling against palm, clammy and insecure.

“What if they find out?” Harry asks, squeezing Malfoy’s hand momentarily. “What if they realize it wasn’t a mistake. That I did it on purpose.”

“If we’re lucky, they’ll skip the Kiss and simply throw us to Azkaban,” Malfoy says, voice loud and clear. He doesn’t seem afraid. “Maybe your reputation will get us a cell together. One last plea from their Saviour. To share his final bed with Death Eater scum.” He’s moved his hand up and is tracing the veins in Harry’s wrist. “We’ll stay there rotting. Going mad. Wasting away.” Malfoy’s nails bite into his tender skin. Slowly, he traces a painful trail up the inside of Harry’s forearm. “Together till the end.” Malfoy finally looks at him, eyes a tumultuous gray and nails sharp against Harry’s skin. “Mine. Every day. Just mine.”

 

xxxxx

 

 _And in the naked light I saw_  
_Ten thousand people, maybe more_  
_People talking without speaking_  
_People hearing without listening_  
_People writing songs that voices never share_  
_And no one dare  
_ _Disturb the sound of silence_

 

xxxxx

 

_Funeral after funeral and your life starts to look as if death is all there ever was. And  worst of all, Harry thinks, when another coffin is lowered into the hole in the ground, you don’t even know who killed them. Was it Crabbe? Bellatrix? Mcnair? Avery? Harry swallows hard. Was it Malfoy?_

_Everywhere Harry turns, all he sees is black. Witches with tall black hats, wizards with black handkerchiefs, black robes, black skies, black hearts. Harry is certain that he will hate this colour for the rest of his life. Perhaps, that’s why he accepted the offer from the MLE. At least the Aurors wore red._

_Hermione is holding his hand limply while her head rests on Ron’s shoulder. Harry thinks he feels her sniffle but when he looks at her, her eyes are empty. There aren’t enough tears in a human body to last this many funerals. The officiant is droning on. People pretend to hear - the elderly witches nod their elaborate hats and the elderly wizards nod their bushy beards - but nobody's listening. Harry is sure he could recreate the man’s speech in his dreams. No doubt he's talking about bravery and honourable causes and valiant efforts and sacrifice._

_And then he’ll go on and talk about how the person was kind and pure and courageous, all heart and light and love._

_And maybe they weren’t._

_Maybe they were an arsehole. Maybe they were arrogant and rude and untrustworthy and maybe they were fucking a Death Eater behind everyone else’s back. Maybe it just so happened that they hated Voldemort that little bit more than they hated the rest of the world._

 

xxxxx

 

The door slams open. Harry spins around, head shooting up, wand at the ready. Malfoy never slams doors. In fact, if he can help it, he avoids any and all action that would show his emotions. Even when Harry can clearly tell what the man is feeling, he denies it and tries his best to slip the mask back on his face. Harry hates that about him.

Today, however, Malfoy is seething. The mask is off, his jaw clenched and the muscle in his right cheekbone twitching. His eyes are cold and murderous and for once Harry can reconcile the man with the job he does for a living. Harry smirks. He loves it when Malfoy’s composure slips and this time he knows exactly what has left him so unsettled.

“What the fuck is this?” Malfoy snaps, flinging the newspaper he’d been holding at Harry’s chest. Harry catches it easily, glancing at the crumpled first page. He finds exactly what he expected there. His smirk grows.

“Oh,” he says, sounding rather unconvincingly surprised. “Look, it’s me.” Malfoy’s jaw clenches further and Harry knows he’s gritting his teeth.

“What were you doing with him?” Malfoy tries to regain his composure but the sneer on his face is immovable.

Harry glances down at the Daily Prophet’s sensationalist front page which is flashing “AUROR ROMANCE” in bold letters. A giant photo of him and Zacharias Smith graces the cover - they are tucked away in a booth at the Leaky Cauldron, Smith more than obviously drunk and Harry at least as obviously tipsy. They’re leaning towards each other, Smith’s arm around Harry’s shoulder and a sultry smile on his lips. Harry can still hear his slurred _‘you’re a wanker, Potter, but I’d still fuck you’_. After he’d said that, Smith licked his lips and put his free hand on Harry’s thigh. Harry didn’t resist.

“Why Malfoy, I didn’t know you cared?” Harry throws back mainly because he loves seeing Malfoy’s badly contained jealousy shred him to pieces.

“Fucking _Smith_ , Potter,” Malfoy spits. “That fucking prick?”

Harry throws his head back and laughs. The audacity Malfoy has to call anyone a prick. He looks him dead in the eye and laughs some more. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.” Judging by how Malfoy’s face darkens, he doesn’t think Harry’s mirth is merited at all. He takes a step towards Harry, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Did he fuck you?” Malfoy grits out. He takes Harry’s jaw in hand, forcing him to look directly into the steel grey eyes.

Harry recalls the buzz of the alcohol in his blood, the heat that spread from the hand on his leg towards his crotch, the slow heavy-lidded gaze raking down his chest. He remembers the desire, so different than the desire he feels for Malfoy. So much simpler, so uncomplicated.

“No.”

Malfoy inhales sharply through the nose. His grip on Harry’s jaw loosens in relief.

“ _I_ fucked _him_ ,” Harry says simply. He only sees a flash of Malfoy’s rage before the grasp on his face tightens momentarily and he is pushed, his head flying backwards followed by his body, which twists uncomfortably. He stumbles and, hitting the edge of the bed, falls onto the duvet. Half of his face hurts but there’s something a lot like pride unfurling in his chest - until he looks at Malfoy again.

One glance at Malfoy’s face and all his self-satisfaction evaporates. Not once during the night he fucked Smith did he regret what he was doing, not before, not during, not after. But one look at Malfoy’s face is enough to fill him with profound self-hatred. Malfoy is staring somewhere to Harry’s left, a tightly clenched fist covering his mouth as if to keep himself from screaming, the grey eyes filled with an emotion that can only be described as pain.

“Fuck.” Harry lifts himself from the duvet, but remains seated on the bed. He rakes his hand through his hair. “Fuck, Malfoy, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Malfoy forces out, his eyes pressing shut. “Shut the fuck up.”

Malfoy’s eyes remain closed  for what feels like minutes. Harry sees his jaw clench and unclench, the silence pressing down all around them. When Malfoy finally opens his eyes, he gives a curt nod. “Fine.”

“Fine?” That was all this prick was going to say?

Malfoy finally turns to look at him. He stares Harry down, challenging him to dare say anything further on the matter. The silence is persistent. It pushes down against their ears, deafening them.

“So,” Harry clears his throat. He can’t stand this soundless void between them. “How was your day?” he tries for casual, immediately knowing it was a stupid fucking thing to ask.

Malfoy barks a dry laugh, still not looking at him. “Do you really want to know?”

Silence takes over the room again as Harry doesn’t immediately answer. The fact of the matter is: he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to know how Malfoy’s day was because he likes living with the illusion that their life is contained to this room, that the them of the outside world doesn’t exist in here, no matter how he’s proven wrong every single time they open their mouths. There is no bubble around them and there never was, it’s always been just the two of them pretending that the outside world did not exist while its deafening silence continued to weigh against their self-designated haven.

“No,” he answers truthfully, because if there’s anything he freely grants Malfoy, it’s the truth. “I don’t want to know.”

Malfoy nods. “I do want to know about yours, though. Good day? Looks like it was. Fucked a cunt in Auror robes and didn’t even have to ask to roleplay. Did you also kill any scary bad wizards? Together, after you got off? Did you jack off over their bodies?” His eyebrow raises, mocking. The ‘ _f_ _ine_ ’ from before resonates between them, the bitterness of Malfoy’s questions a testament that Malfoy’s never been less fine than now.

Harry knows he shouldn’t let the words annoy him so much. Malfoy is trying to provoke him. He’s been hurt and this is his payback. Harry knows all that and yet his blood shoots just that little bit faster through his veins and his hands twitch.

“And you?” he counters. “Killed any helpless Muggles?” Harry raises his own eyebrow accepting the challenge. Malfoy’s nostrils flare for a fraction of a second before he schools himself.

“The muggles that I kill are far from helpless, Potter.” He shrugs carelessly. “I’d even go as far as to say they are absolutely despicably able - able to make the world hell.”

“Oh, please. Don’t pretend you’re a hero.” Harry scoffs, looking away from Malfoy to stare at a faded rose on the wallpaper.

“Says the man who pretends every day,” Malfoy throws back at him, without a moment's pause.

“I don’t just kill people!” Harry emphasises every word, his sentence coming out butchered and much too loud. “I take them to prison. That’s different.” He’s resolutely staring at the peeling wallpaper because he knows that Malfoy’s snotty mug will only make his urge to punch something even greater.

“Oh, how merciful of you.” Malfoy’s words are dripping with pretend sweetness. “And they even get kissed in prison! Granted, only once, but at least it’s not an Avada Kedavra to the heart, right?”

“You get paid for killing muggles. It’s the most inhumane thing anyone can do. Getting paid by some scum to kill another hu-”

“Oh, dear me,” Malfoy cuts in sarcastically, “does the MLE not pay you? You? One of their best Aurors?”

Harry stands up and takes a threatening step towards Malfoy ready to deny what Malfoy's implying, but the cold that is spreading through his chest is blocking every attempt at his defence.

“You, dear Chosen Boy, get paid for killing wizards. Let’s not forget that.” Malfoy finishes.

Harry finally breaks through the ice in his chest. “I get paid for solving cases!”

“How curious,” Malfoy says, obviously not finding the matter curious in the least. “That’s how my clients refer to my targets as well. Cases.”

“I am nothing like you!” Harry takes one more step towards Malfoy and shoves him in the chest. Malfoy stumbles. Harry’s had it with these stupid, unfounded accusations. The people he kills and captures are scum and yes, maybe Malfoy’s _‘cases’_ are as well, but at least Harry doesn’t take orders from other scum. His mind flashes to Umbridge who, after all she did during the war, still managed to keep her position at the Ministry. Then it flashes to all the suspicious file disappearances, things pushed under the carpet because esteemed politicians were involved in some shady business.

But at least he doesn’t do it for the money. At least he does it for the right reasons, right? To protect his friends, to keep the world safe. He does it for that. Why then does he feel such satisfaction when he hurls a curse at a criminal. The power it brings, seeing them crumble to the floor, giving them what they deserve. The surge of adrenaline that follows, the euphoric high, so unseemly yet so addicting.

He realizes he’s practically snarling at Malfoy, his hands fisted in his robes. Malfoy is livid too, his nostrils fully aflare now.

“You’re nothing like me?” Malfoy says, contempt stronger with every syllable. “Then why do you keep coming here? You convince yourself this is destroying your life, that it’s tearing it apart, that it’s ruining you.” Malfoy’s lips are bared and Harry can see his teeth clench momentarily before he spits, “Liar. This is the only thing keeping you together.”

Harry tries to shake his head, tries to open his mouth and tell him he’s wrong, but his desperate grip on Malfoy’s clothes would betray his lie.

“You can’t stop this,” Malfoy continues, “because you don’t _want_ to. Because there’s a piece inside of you that’s rotten too. An ugly, spiteful piece that hates people just like I do. A piece that doesn’t believe good and bad exists, a piece that knows it doesn’t matter what the fuck we do because all we do in the end is drop dead. A piece that just wants to stop fucking trying because the world’s proven again and again that it’s _utter shit._ ”

Harry’s hands have started to tremble. He tries to swallow but his vocal cords have turned to sandpaper scratching against each other. And Malfoy still isn’t done. His grey eyes aren’t cold for once. They are full of fire and life, like they are when Malfoy presses him into the mattress before he enters him, like they are before he pushes Harry against the door and drops to his knees.

“So here you come, again and again, to be selfish for one fucking time in your miserable life. Because you know that when you’ll be on your deathbed, you won’t be thinking about how you saved this shitty world.” Malfoy was close before, but now he steps even closer, his forehead almost touching Harry’s, when he whispers against his lips. “When death has you in its clutches, all you’ll be thinking about is how my cock stretched your arse, how my teeth bit into the skin of your neck and how my hand felt on yours in the dead of the night.”

Malfoy is wrong, though. How could death trigger those thoughts, when Harry spends every single minute of his life thinking about them already.

 

xxxxx

 

 _"Fools," said I, "You do not know:_  
_Silence, like a cancer, grows._  
_Hear my words that I might teach you._  
_Take my arms that I might reach you."_  
_But my words like silent raindrops fell  
_ _And echoed in the wells of silence_

 

xxxxx

 

_The lift rattles to a stop. Before the door even opens, Harry can sense a mass of people pressing forward. As soon as an inch of the Ministry Atrium is revealed, he’s blinded by the flashing of camera lights. The Aurors around him are trying to make way for him, but they’re being swept around like a leaf in an untamed torrent. Harry looks around wildly, there are people waving at him, their mouths opening in what must be shouts. The lips of an elderly witch form the word ‘Saviour’ and a man just barely over twenty is screaming ‘Thank you’ on repeat._

_All Harry hears is a heavy thundering in his ears as his heart beats faster and faster. He feels trapped. He pats his pockets for his wand frantically, but it isn’t there. Where the fuck is his wand?! Right - the front desk! A muscular arm grabs him and he turns, panicking. It’s one of the Aurors._

_He turns forward again, the only thought occupying his mind is to get to the fireplaces as soon as possible. He can get his wand later, he needs to get out now. But then, the Aurors in front of him thin out and a witch falls to her knees before him. One of the Aurors in burgundy robes pulls her away, throwing her back among the crowd._

_In his disoriented state, one word starts to penetrate the thundering buzz in his ears. “Hero! Hero! Hero!” The crowd has started chanting._

_“I’M NOT YOUR HERO!” The scream tears raw and pleading from his throat. The force of responsibility, the weight of the burden, crashes onto him, making him stumble. “I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING HERO!”_

_In that moment, he hates them all. In that moment, he wishes he never would have saved them._

 

xxxxx

 

Malfoy steps into the room and, without a moment’s notice, Harry is on him, pushing him against the wall bearing on his chest with the whole length of his forearm. All air leaves Malfoy’s lungs from the force of the impact. Without letting him regain his composure, Harry shoves the photo he’s been holding in his other hand right into Malfoy’s face. It’s a magical photo, but one can hardly tell: the man in the photo lies unmoving on the floor.

“Is this your work?” Harry hisses at Malfoy, waving the photo he took from the case file in front of his face. Harry hardly needs Malfoy’s confirmation, but he wants him to admit it out loud.

“Maybe.” The words are forced out with difficulty - Harry’s arm has slipped up and is pressing on the hollow of Malfoy’s throat.

“As soon as I stepped into the room I could feel your magic permeating every fucking inch of it.” Harry’s heart is hammering from the memory. This isn’t the first time he’s been called to Malfoy’s crime scene, but feeling the dark, twisted magic of the man he’s been fucking for years never fails to unsettle him. And it makes him livid.

“So why are you asking then?” Malfoy tries for lighthearted snark but there’s a trace of fear in his eyes. He knows exactly how furious Harry is.

“His daughter and son found him, did you know?” Harry counters with a question of his own. “Age four and seven.”

“This man has killed more people than you and I ever will, Potter.” The one thing Harry hates about Malfoy is that he is never sorry. Not a smidge of regret for any of his actions.

“But his children didn’t!” Harry doesn’t even try to control his emotions anymore. He wants Malfoy to know exactly how much he hates him in that moment.

“He was scum,” Malfoy spits, getting riled up as well.

“So are YOU!” Harry snarls, slamming Malfoy against the wall hard. Blood is pounding in the vein on Harry’s temple and he’s started shaking from rage.

“So, what are you gonna do about it?” Malfoy challenges and has the nerve to lick his lip teasingly. Malfoy knows what’s coming and Harry doesn’t know what he hates more: that Malfoy’s right, or that he will enjoy it.

“You fucking cunt,” Harry says through his clenched teeth. He takes hold of Malfoy’s hair and yanks it back, baring the pale throat. The photo has fallen to the floor, forgotten. Malfoy’s head is bent at a painful angle and Harry loves how helpless he looks. But he loves it even more that Malfoy, hard as he try, can’t get rid of the fear in his eyes. Harry inches closer, aligning himself with Malfoy, pressing their bodies together as he whispers into his ear. “You. Fucking. Cunt.”

“A cunt that you can’t keep your hands off,” Malfoy mutters, tone mocking, provoking.

“Get on your knees,” Harry hisses into his ear, pushing Malfoy down to make his complaisance faster.

When Malfoy is on his knees before him, a smug smile on his lips, Harry wastes no time unzipping his trousers. He takes his half-hard cock out and, without preamble, rubs it against Malfoy’s lips. They open up eagerly, and his hand, still tangled in the blond hair, pushes Malfoy down on his cock. As soon as he hears Malfoy choke, he’s fully hard. Malfoy’s throat constricts around Harry, working his dick farther in making Harry groan as he thrusts farther into the sweet mouth. The fact that he’s still in his Auror uniform brings him even greater satisfaction. The wand holster on his thigh, the protective upper garment - a bitch to take off, but useful nonetheless - and last but not least, his burgundy Auror robes, singed and torn in places, but Harry believes that only adds to their charm. Perversely, he knows Malfoy gets off on his uniform more than he does on anything else.

When Malfoy’s eyes start to water from Harry’s painful grip on his hair, all he wants to do is punish him further. Punish him for being who he is, punish him for what he’s done and punish him for _liking_ it. So, Harry fucks Malfoy’s mouth until his pale hands start grabbing at Harry’s thighs desperately and Malfoy can’t take one breath without choking. Then, Harry pulls out, grabbing hold of Malfoy’s jaw, making him stand up. The absolute submission in Malfoy’s eyes makes him want to punch him. He wants him to fight, to scream, to challenge him. _No, I’m not scum! No, I’m not heartless!_ Instead he takes it all, surrenders in admittance of his deeds and Harry hates him all the more for it.

He kisses him. Hard and unforgiving, his mouth is merciless on Malfoy’s mouth as a pale hand grips his robes pulling him further in, and Malfoy gasps into Harry’s mouth. When Harry breaks the kiss, for a moment all he sees is black. Not Malfoy’s pale skin, not his blond hair, not his vivid grey eyes, but the black robes, black shirt, black trousers, all black anywhere he looks.

He despises it. Black. Not even a colour, but the absence of it, imposing itself like a crippling metaphor for Malfoy’s empty soul. Before Harry even realizes what he’s doing, he’s tearing at the black robe, unfastening the clip and throwing it in a corner. It doesn’t even hit the ground, before Harry’s already ripping open the black shirt, exposing the blissfully pale chest. It’s not enough, though, there are too many deaths on Malfoy’s hands to erase the blood from them and Harry wants to rip his chest open just to prove that the heart’s still there.

Instead, he yanks down Malfoy’s trousers along with his pants, and his cock, stiff and leaking, bobs in the air in a poor attempt at situational comedy. Harry takes hold of it squeezing hard enough to make Malfoy hiss in discomfort. His other hand settles on Malfoy’s chest, tracing a scar that had missed Malfoy’s nipple for a mere inch. That is his favourite scar because it stops right where Malfoy’s heart beats fiercely in his chest.

“Potter,” Malfoy says in a low voice.

Harry’s hand trails further up, until it reaches Malfoy’s neck where it curls around his throat. He strokes the vein below Malfoy’s jaw before stepping close, just close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Say it,” Harry demands, his lips brushing against Malfoy’s earlobe while his grip on Malfoy’s neck tightens slightly. Malfoy shivers but shakes his head in a silent ‘no’.

“Say it,” Harry demands more forcefully now, squeezing the throat harder. He feels Malfoy gulp nervously, but he remains silent. Harry’s pressure increases, and Malfoy’s cheeks flush with an unhealthy tinge of deep red that Harry loves so much.

“I said _say it_ .” Harry’s not playing anymore. Malfoy’s pulse is beating frantically against his palm and tears well up in the grey eyes. Harry knows Malfoy will crack. He always does. Because he fucking _loves_ it.

“Harry,” Malfoy croaks out finally and Harry smirks. As soon as his grip loosens, Malfoy starts coughing, his lungs settling on heavy breathing when the fit is over. Harry loves it when he makes a mess like this out of him. He knows there’s a triumphant glint in his own eyes and when Malfoy looks at him, a smug curl of his lips lets him know he’s noticed.

Harry doesn’t want to see a scrap of satisfaction on Malfoy’s face today. He turns them around pushing Malfoy towards the bed and flinging him on it.. He’ll never get tired of seeing Malfoy spread out like this. His ankles are still trapped in his trousers and Harry vanishes them wandlessly. Malfoy’s cock gives an interested twitch. There’s nothing Malfoy loves more than displays of pure power. Harry wants to hurt him for it. Show him what power can really do. How it can be twisted and abused. He gathers his magic inside him, the raw, primal one, and lets it out towards Malfoy. Instantly, Malfoy is flipped over and he falls, like a rag doll, back onto the tacky red duvet.

Harry follows him onto the bed, taking off his cloak and simply vanishing his upper garment - he has no patience to unfasten all those clips. He vanishes his trousers right after because his patience doesn’t even extend far enough to unzip them. He kneels between the pale legs, marvelling at the clear pale skin of Malfoy’s back. There are no scars there, the skin is smooth, unmarred. Malfoy’s head rises, but Harry pushes his face back into the pillow, none too gently.

“Get in position.” His voice is low, threatening, almost a growl. Malfoy obliges, but he turns his head again to look back at Harry. His eyes reflect the heat of his desire when he notices Harry’s bare chest and his heavy cock. Harry will let him look for now. Malfoy won’t be able to later, anyway; he’ll be too busy biting the pillow, fighting back screams.

Harry bends over Malfoy’s back without touching him, safe for the hand in Malfoy’s hair. He pulls him in for a kiss. Malfoy opens his lips immediately, letting Harry’s tongue into his mouth without hesitation. Harry revels at Malfoy’s complete surrender of control that is so rarely granted.

He breaks the kiss and his cock twitches at the sight of Malfoy’s swollen red lips. They’re beyond compelling, parted and wet from the mix of their saliva. Harry lets go of Malfoy’s hair, moving his hand so that his fingers have access to the bruised mouth. He pushes them in, exploring the mouth with them, never breaking the gaze. Malfoy, the brat that he is, swirls his tongue around them, his eyes glinting with challenge. Harry can’t help but rub his cock over Malfoy’s arse at the sight. Malfoy moans at the feeling, thrusting his arse back to create more friction. He moans even louder this time. Harry grabs his jaw in a tight grip, pushing his fingers farther down Malfoy’s throat.

“Stop moaning and start licking. This is all the lube you’re gonna get.” The tendons in Malfoy’s jaw go stiff and the trace of fear is back in his eyes. Harry doesn’t care. It’s not like he didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

When his fingers are thoroughly wet, he wastes no time. He straightens up, opens Malfoy’s arse cheeks and traces a wet finger along the opening. Malfoy gasps in anticipation and he doesn’t have to wait long before the finger enters him. Fuck, Malfoy’s tight. Harry doesn’t often fuck him - he prefers it the other way around - but today isn’t about pleasure, today is all about punishment. Harry might hate himself for it with every breath of discomfort that leaves Malfoy’s lungs but his self-hate doesn’t stop him from shoving in a second finger and then a third because Malfoy fucking _deserves_ this and Harry’s never hated him more than in the moment he saw the tear-streaked cheeks of the little girl who had found her father dead.

Malfoy’s hands are twisted in the pillow and there’s beads of sweat covering most of his back. He keeps silently cursing Harry every time his fingers shove in with too much force, but Malfoy’s balls are hanging tight between his legs in testament of his enjoyment. When Harry pulls his fingers out, Malfoy is a whimpering mess and his precome has darkened a large patch of the duvet beneath him. The twisted bastard.

Harry spits heavily on his palm twice, stroking his cock with it. He parts Malfoy’s cheeks and enjoys seeing the pink hole open and close slowly. He spits once more, this time dropping a long strip of his saliva right onto Malfoy’s arse crack.

“I thought that was all the lube I was going to get?” Malfoy provokes, shivering as Harry’s spit makes its way down into his hole.

“Don’t make me vanish it all and fuck you raw,” Harry says. There’s so much resentment in his voice he even surprises himself. He has no time for introspection, though. He aligns his cock with Malfoy’s hole and pushes the tip inside.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters. Malfoy answers with a curse of his own. The muscles in his back have pulled together and he’s trying to keep completely still as Harry pushes his cock farther in. As soon as Harry’s sheathed all the way in, his balls on Malfoy’s arse, he starts pulling out again. Even his own cock feels tender, he can’t imagine how Malfoy’s arse feels. Harry slams in for the second time and Malfoy’s head falls forward and he whimpers into the pillow. One of his hands, which had been gripping the duvet, flies under his body and fists his cock in firm motions. The whimper turns into a moan.

Harry hates it. Hates that Malfoy is enjoying this, hates that he’s relishing the pain, hates that he’s a sick bastard who loves to be fucked this way, as if he isn’t worthy of anything else, as if this is the only emotion he lets others inflict upon him - pain. But Harry hates himself much more because he goes along with it. Because he fucks Malfoy raw until he’s biting into the pillow, fighting down his sobs, because Malfoy’s knuckles are completely white from clawing at the duvet, because Malfoy’s at his breaking point and Harry, in his own sick mind, can’t wait for him to reach it.

He pushes Malfoy’s head further down into the pillow as he leverages himself, trusting deeper, faster, more erratically.

“Fucking hell.” He hears himself say, panting hard. There are beads of sweat falling from his forehead onto Malfoy’s back. “Fuck,” he says once more, when a muffled whimper that sounds a lot like _please_ comes from Malfoy’s mouth. From the way Malfoy’s arm is moving in quick strong tugs, Harry knows it’s not a _please stop_ , but a _please more, harder, faster_.

Harry can’t believe Malfoy loves it so much that he’s ready to beg for it and it almost sends him over the edge. He’s positively pounding into Malfoy by now, his cock  tender and his balls all drawn up.

“Fuck, Draco,” slips from lips and he knows he’s lost the game because this is all Malfoy’s been waiting for. For Harry to forget he wants to hurt him, for Harry to forget he hates him and remember that he loves him instead. At the sound of his name, Malfoy’s hand stutters to a halt and he moans loudly, his body sizing up as he comes.

The hole clenches painfully around Harry’s cock and he, too, comes in three shallow thrusts, his orgasm momentarily disconnecting his brain from his body as he collapses onto Malfoy’s back. They lay there, sticky, sweaty, their laboured breaths the only sound resonating through the room. Harry shifts slowly and Malfoy winces. Pleasure now gone, Malfoy’s body is in pain.

Harry kisses the back of his neck gently. “Shhh,” he says into the soft skin as he pulls out as slowly as he can. Malfoy shivers beneath him all the way. Harry then somehow manages to wrangle the crumpled duvet from beneath them and, settling next to Malfoy, he covers them with it. Malfoy never wants them to touch after sex, but this time he scoots closer, turns his head in Harry’s direction and buries his face into his neck. Harry feels a tongue dart from Malfoy’s lips leaving a wet trail on Harry’s skin. Then he bites into it, hard and for long enough that it’s bound to leave a mark.

“Harry,” is mumbled softly, into the tender spot and, in that moment, Harry knows there are no winners in this game they’re playing - there are only losers. The broken and the beaten, making do with the pain that they’ve got.

 

xxxxx

 

 _And the people bowed and prayed_  
_To the neon God they made_  
_And the sign flashed out its warning_  
_And the words that it was forming_  
_And the sign said,_  
_"The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls_  
_And tenement halls."  
_ _And whispered in the sound of silence_

 

xxxxx

 

_Harry sits in an armchair in the corner of the sitting room at the Burrow. It’s been weeks since the war has ended but the silence of mourning still deafens the Weasley home, once so lively and warm, now muted and distant. Harry wonders if the atmosphere really is quite so dire or if he only projects the bleakness inside of him onto his surroundings. He leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. It must be the least interesting thing in the entire room, but he still stares and stares simply because moving feels like too much of an effort._

_Then, the pocket of his trousers goes warm and before it even has the chance to get properly hot, Harry scrambles for the coin in his jeans. His hands are shaking so badly he almost drops it. He squints his eyes to read the engraving on the edge. It’s hard to discern in the dim light._

**_Homerton Rd Bridge_ ** _it says. He flips the coin over._ **_2am_ ** _, he reads but barely acknowledges it because his eyes have settled on the_ **_D.M._ ** _next to it._

_He made it._

_Harry’s body doesn’t know what to do with itself. His heart alternates between wanting to beat fiercely in his chest and stopping completely. His chest is expanding and constricting simultaneously and his hands are trembling so hard he can barely get the coin back into the pocket of his jeans._

_Malfoy made it. Made it out of the final battle. Made it after the Aurors started a forceful pursuit of the escaped Death Eaters in the following days._

_Malfoy_ made it _and for the first time in weeks Harry feels like surviving was worth it._

 

xxxxx

 

Harry rolls them over and straddles Malfoy’s hips without breaking the kiss. He grinds down, making Malfoy groan into his mouth. He can feel the hardening cock through his trousers. Malfoy’s demanding hands find Harry’s chest and his fingers fumble with the buttons of Harry’s collar. He manages to pop open the first and the second one, but gets stuck on the third. Cursing, he breaks the kiss. Harry pulls back, slapping Malfoy’s impatient hands away and quickly unbuttons his shirt himself. When he tries to get his arms out of the sleeves, he fumbles a bit himself because Malfoy’s distracting hands are already sliding up his stomach, while his heated gaze follows the path of his fingers.

Malfoy’s hands suddenly freeze in place and his eyes zero in on the left side of Harry’s chest. Harry’s heart gives a nervous beat before it starts to hammer against his chest. He must look ridiculous. One wrist caught in the cuff of his shirt while the other arm is still inside his sleeve. He swallows nervously. He was hoping Malfoy would be too preoccupied to notice.

“What is this?” Malfoy demands, waving at Harry’s left pectoral muscle.

“Nothing,” Harry says quickly. _Too_ quickly.

“Listen, Potter, I’m not a bloody idiot. I’ve told you that your glamours are shit a hundred times.” Malfoy’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Did you get hit again?”

“No,” Harry answers curtly.

“You always glamour your fresh wounds and I’ve told you a hundred fucking times not t-”

“Well, you go into a fucking fit about them every fucking time don’t you?” Harry snaps. Malfoy’s fingers touch Harry’s chest. Gently, they flutter against his skin.

“Does it hurt?” Malfoy doesn’t wait for Harry’s answer before continuing. “Take it off.”

“No.” Harry’s response is firm. He grabs Malfoy’s wrist and pushes his hand down to lie against his stomach. “It’s not a wound,” he says quietly, avoiding Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy gives him a hard look, growing more and more suspicious. “Take it off, Potter.”

“You don’t want that,” Harry assures. His heart is now in his throat and his hand holding Malfoy’s wrist is shaking. The only solace he gets is from Malfoy’s pulse, which, too, beats quick and flickering against his fingertips.

“Don’t be a fucking pain and take the glamour off, Potter.” Malfoy isn’t having it.

“Fine,” Harry says sharply. He’d wanted to keep this to himself. But if Malfoy wants to see it, then he’ll fucking see it. He won’t be able to handle it anyway.

Harry sweeps his right palm a few inches above his chest, magic brushing against his skin softly. His eyes are on Malfoy the whole time. When Malfoy’s gaze settles on the revealed spot, his whole body freezes. The lack of rise and fall of his chest makes him look like he’s stopped breathing. When he finally moves, its his mouth that falls open followed by his adam’s apple working furiously in his throat.

“What the fuck is this?” Malfoy croaks out. His voice is dry and laced with panic.

Harry takes a deep breath, looking down at his chest. “A tattoo.” There, on his chest, right over his heart, a green dragon stands proudly, its wings unfurled and its mouth opened in a roar. It’s a Muggle tattoo, still fresh and sensitive. The skin around it is irritated, but the image of the dragon is unmistakable. When Harry turns back to Malfoy, he sees that his shifty eyes are full of poorly concealed dread. Harry fucking knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“Cover it back up.” Malfoy’s eyes finally lock with Harry’s and he realizes that the man is furious. He looks like a caged wild animal, angry for having been caught but fearful of the power that was able to catch it. “Hide it,” Malfoy hisses his mouth curling into a sneer.

In that moment, Harry wants to pummel Malfoy into the pillow until it’s red with blood. But he cannot move. Malfoy’s face is a stage for the dramatic play of his emotions. Horror and rage fight for the attention of the audience and Harry’s never wanted to leave a show as much as he wants to leave this one. He knows his heart will end up torn and mangled when it ends. In fact, his heart is pounding against his ribs as if suspecting what’s to come and trying to escape the pain, even if that means leaving the rest of his body behind. Malfoy’s blatant rejection stings more than he expected.

“Fucking hide it!” Malfoy snarls.

But Harry won’t hide it. He’s done hiding it. He’s spent half his life hiding it from everyone he ever knew and he’ll be damned if kept hiding it from the only person who he never should have hid it from in the first place.

“No,” he refuses yet again. “No, goddammit Malfoy,  I won’t hide it,” Harry spits the words out with venom, his panicked pulse changing into angry battering. “I won’t fucking hide it.” He emphasises his words by leaning forward and lowering his voice. “You knew it. You fucking knew it all along.You’ve always known. So, stop pretending you don’t know what this is between us. Just because you don’t want to say it, it doesn’t mean it isn’t fucking there!”

Malfoy doesn’t move for the longest time. He keeps staring at Harry, barely blinking. He swallows audibly and his thin mouth twitches as if wanting to say something, but changing its mind. He takes a sharp breath, gulps down again and finally he whispers, voice faint. If Harry hadn’t been there he wouldn’t have heard it.

“So, you’re saying you...” One of his hands trapped between their bodies waves weakly in the direction of Harry’s chest. In the direction of Harry’s heart.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers in response. “You know it. You know I do.” It’s fucked up. Gritty and hidden and full of wishes that will never be, but _there_ , always there. It doesn’t make him a better person, maybe it even makes him a worse one, but if he had to choose one thing that he would live for, it would be this. He would die for many things. Friends, family, acquaintances, strangers, even for a noble cause. But live - if he had to live - he would live for this.

Without warning Malfoy’s hand is on Harry’s neck and a beat of a second later Malfoy crashes their lips together into a hungry kiss. Despair and desire mix when their tongues touch and Harry is lost. Malfoy’s palms are sliding down his back. Harry doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or if there really is more tenderness in them than before. They lost their erections during their argument but they’re slowly getting hard again. Harry rubs his half-hard cock against Malfoy’s and Malfoy’s hips thrust up involuntarily. Then Malfoy grabs his arse and he rocks Harry back and forth creating delicious friction.

Malfoy’s lips are on Harry’s ear. He nibbles on his earlobe and then his tongue darts out, teasing, hot and humid, setting Harry’s nerves on fire. Malfoy’s finger slides into his crack and rubs against Harry’s arsehole, not pushing in, just rubbing firmly against it in a promise of what’s to come.

“Lube,” Malfoy says, gasping into his ear because Harry had just delivered a well placed bite to the tender place under his jaw. Malfoy pulls his hand between their bodies and Harry is forced to straighten slightly to make space for it. Malfoy’s palm is open waiting for Harry to casts and fill it with lube. Harry does so quickly but imprecisely and dollops of the gel fall onto Malfoy’s stomach. Malfoy shivers at the coldness but wastes no time: he reaches behind Harry and rubs the first finger against his entrance. Harry bends down again pushing back, seeking more. Malfoy complies immediately. The finger presses in gently, exploring, stretching, sliding in and out leisurely until Harry’s begging for more. The second finger joins the first and Harry welcomes it with a loud groan.

Malfoy’s other hand is on Harry’s neck caressing the wisps of hair and Harry revels at the feeling. Malfoy is never rough with him, never as rough as Harry is to Malfoy, but there is a new side to the gentleness, as if Malfoy’s body is trying to convey something his words cannot.

“Potter,” Malfoy pleads in his ear, “ride me. Or I’ll come like this.”

Harry is lost in the sensation of Malfoy’s fingers rubbing against his prostate and his cock rubbing against Malfoy’s creating double pleasure. He needs a few moments to process the words, but when he does, he complies immediately. Malfoy’s fingers pull out of him and Harry takes Malfoy’s cock in his hand. He casts a quick lubing charm again before aligning it with his hole. Slowly, he lets the head of the cock slide in. He gasps at the stretch. He slides down the length of it revelling at how it fills him, eyes shut while he adjusts. Malfoy’s hands are on his thighs, fingers digging softly into Harry’s skin, his whole body waiting for permission to move.

When Harry finally rocks forward, a whisper of relief escapes Malfoy’s throat. Harry opens his eyes. Malfoy is looking at him as if he’s seeing him for the first time. Malfoy’s known Harry’s body for years, seen it ugly and starved and fit and hot and ill and healthy and never got tired of tracing every bit of it. Touching it gently, touching it harshly, touching it in any way he wanted because Harry let him do it all and still there was never so much wonder in his eyes as there is now - eyes that are fixed on the image of the dragon on Harry’s chest while Harry fucks himself on his cock. Malfoy’s hips are thrusting in and out of him in rhythm, but his eyes, try as they might, can’t rip away from the dragon above Harry’s heart.

Harry moves faster. The unconcealed want in Malfoy’s eyes is making him painfully hard and he can’t hold back anymore. Their movements are getting frantic; Malfoy’s hands are gripping his hips painfully as Harry lowers himself on his cock faster and faster. And it feels so good, feeling this full, feeling this wanted. Malfoy lifts up, sitting, and wraps his arms around Harry’s torso. His mouth is on Harry’s sternum, hot breaths sending chills down Harry’s body while Malfoy licks his way up towards Harry’s neck. He avoids the tender skin around the tattoo but Harry can see the desire in his eyes. The desire to touch it, lick it, bite it, get inside it, replace the symbol with its referent.

They are sweaty and hot and breathing hard. One of Malfoy’s hands finds Harry’s mouth, his thumb pulling down his lower lip while Harry gasps without abandon. Malfoy kisses him again, fervently and sloppily his tongue delving deep into Harry’s mouth. His hand flies back to Harry’s hips slamming him down on his cock. Groaning, Harry’s hand finds his own throbbing cock and he fists himself hard. He can’t bear another minute with this pressure inside. He needs release so badly he’s willing to beg for it.

“Fuck. Malfoy,” he gasps directly into Malfoy’s mouth. “Draco, I’m - soon.”

Malfoy’s only response is a loud moan and Harry knows he’s close, too. Close just from Harry riding his cock, close just because Harry is now moaning his name on repeat and Malfoy is answering back with his own chant of _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ before his whole body seizes up and his hand grips Harry’s hair in a steel grip and he comes, spilling inside him. Harry’s eyes momentarily tear up from the sudden pain of the grip and then he’s coming too. He feels nothing at all and everything at once, his forehead pressed against Malfoy’s while their bodies’ tremors quiet down together.

They collapse onto the bed, falling on it sideways, panting. Malfoy looks at him, his eyes a troubled gray when they fall on Harry’s chest. He turns his head towards the ceiling, pausing momentarily before rolling over. He sits up, untangles his wand from the sheets and gets out of the bed, his movements still lethargic from the orgasm. Harry extends his arm to stop him, but gives up halfway letting it fall limp on the bed. Malfoy pads to his robes and rummages around in his pockets.

Harry hopes he won’t go. But even if he does, even if it tears his heart apart for being dismissed so casually, he knows they’ll both be back in this room fucking and cursing and raging at each other in no time. Harry feels pathetic. Malfoy’s come is dripping out of his arse and his heart is aching with uncertainty and vulnerability of his confession. But a love confession changes nothing. Love or not, it doesn’t change who they are. Love or not, they are still as fucked up as they used to be. Or maybe more because of it.

Malfoy doesn’t go though, he doesn’t even put on his robes, he simply pulls out a packet of cigarettes and makes his way across the room to stare out the rain-splattered window. The view is miserable, but Harry doubts Malfoy really sees what he’s looking at. His eyes are distant when he lights a cigarette with a practised flick of his wand. Ironically, he looks almost like an angel, his naked body illuminated with the cars’ headlights every time a car speeds by. Alternatively, when no car comes, he’s bathed in the faint light of the upcoming dawn, the cigarette bud glowing bright in the shadow. For the longest time, Malfoy doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even move. The only thing moving are the wisps of smoke curling in the air around his mouth.

“I do too,” Malfoy finally speaks puffs of smoke leaving his lips. His jaw clenches. “You know…” he trails off, absentmindedly touching his heart with his hand. When he finally turns, the words still echoing between them, Harry realizes that, in all their existence, the grey eyes have never held a greater truth.

And Harry does. He knows. He’s known all along. All those years spent hiding and fighting and fucking and never getting tired of it. Through all those years of hidden moments, secret touches, through all the yearning and fear and pain, every moment of every day, Harry _knows_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story cost me many, many, many tears. Comments and kudos will be my tissues, to wipe my tear-streaked cheeks with, so pls _help_.


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